Friday 15th August 2025
Blog Page 657

Review: Gods are Fallen and All Safety Gone – ‘a relationship fraying at the edges’

Madeleine Piggott
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Review: Gods are Fallen and All Safety Gone – ‘a relationship fraying at the edges’

Oblivious to the gathering audience, the two actors sit on stage, intently, and intensely, staring at each other. What is it they see? Or rather, what is it they are looking for in each other? The title of the play quotes John Steinbeck’s East of Eden, which explores every child’s eventual recognition of their parents’ flaws. This production cleverly relocates this realisation to the visual world, as the daughter Annie’s searching gaze is only ever met by her mother’s unfaltering blank stare, forcing her to publicly come to terms with her mother’s inability to provide her with the maternal love or validation that she so desperately seeks. The prevailing sense of lost innocence is mirrored in the various shades of blue costume. A ladder in the mother’s tights unknowingly reflects the unravelling of their relationship. But so too does the unity of colour tastefully foreshadow the possibility of reconciliation at the play’s end.

Linguistically and visually the play is a simplistic affair. Selma Dimitrijec presents the mother/daughter relationship within just four short scenes, where mother and daughter banally discuss bad weather, baths, and boyfriends. But the quotidian nature of their conversation only serves to enhance the loaded subtext of the script. In each scene the text remains virtually the same. The repetition encircles their relationship with a claustrophobic inability to enact meaningful change even as the textual alterations mark a linear progression of time. With the words of the play becoming ever more meaningless with each repetition, the audience’s focus shifts to the actors’ body language. Whilst Nancy Case (Annie) and Lara Deering (her mother) make good use of the space, weaving in and out of the two chairs on stage, switching roles between hunter and prey, it is in the minutia of facial expression that this play becomes as golden as the heavenly lighting of Scene 4.

Deering’s physicality is enviable. Slightly bent forward, shoulders protectively drawn in, it is hard not to envisage her as the older women she portrays. The character’s beautifully offensive language and resentment rests in the sardonic smile playing at the corner of her mouth throughout the play. Whilst Case does not display quite the same stage presence, her open face allows for her battling feelings of disappointment and acceptance to emotively shine through her eyes.

The audience is seated on three sides of the stage, a decision I feel was detrimental to the play’s appreciation. With much of the two’s relationship progressing through facial detail, the position of the actors renders at least a third of the audience unable to see their exchange. Either the audience should be sat facing each other (in keeping with the tone of the opening), or the angle of the chairs on stage should change between scenes. Nevertheless, with a run time of 40 minutes, no-one has an excuse not to see this play. The themes resonant with a young and older audience alike, and I am sure I will not be the only person to leave the theatre with a childish desire to call my mother straight away.

The Forgiveness Arc

Katie Knight
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The Forgiveness Arc

What do you do when you’ve reached your lowest moment? It’s a topic that’s been broached in every story since the end of time, but in none more poignantly than musical theatre, which is able to combine harrowing visuals with chilling music.

Sometimes there’s an answer; sometimes there’s not. Whether it leads to redemption or nothingness, here are some of the best musical theatre songs centred around forgiveness.

Those You’ve Known – Spring Awakening

“Those you’ve pained may carry that still with them,
All the same, they whisper ‘All forgiven’”

The fourteen-year old Melchior finds himself in one of the worst positions conceivable – his best friend dead by suicide, and the girl he slept with dead through his own, indirect, fault. At his wit’s end, he tries to take his life, but the spirits of his friends return to offer him salvation.

Guilt is a theme handled expertly by the show, from the act two opening of The Guilty Ones to the final, harrowing, ending. And yet ultimately the performance finds a note of hope to end upon, and it’s this which is carried forward into the future: Melchior resolves to live, carrying the memories of his friends into he future along with the lessons they’ve learned. It’s a beautiful song of forgiveness – of someone reaching their lowest point and managing to find their way out again.

It’s Quiet Uptown – Hamilton

“Forgiveness, can you imagine?”

Alexander Hamilton finds himself in an unimaginable situation – a son dead, a wife scorned, and the responsibility firmly resting with himself. This is at once both a song of mourning, of guilt, and of forgiveness – a character arc in and of itself. Eliza doesn’t have to forgive Hamilton’s behaviour – but she does. It’s a show of strength and of reconciliation, with a chorus which almost acts as a sigh of relief.

It’s a rare song which allows mourning and forgiveness to exist so intimately together. Away from the dramatics and intrigue of ‘Non-Stop’ and ‘The Reynolds Pamphlet’ this is the true turning-point of the play – the Hamilton we knew, at once brash and unapologetic, never really regains the same spirit he had before. And of course, this is an important development for the show’s dramatic climax – a role-reversal between the show’s two protagonists, Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr.

Absolution/No Words – Bare: A Pop Opera

“We’ll always ask ourselves if there was something more that could have been done.”

“Do you ask yourself that, Father?”

It’s near-impossible to pick a song about forgiveness from a show set entirely in a Catholic high school. A song titled ‘Confession’ may have been the more obvious choice, but this duo songs form a poignant conclusion to a show basically marinating in guilt. After the death of their classmate, a group of high-school students – and their priest – attempt to come to terms with the loss, each detailing the things they would have said.

As the priest and Peter, the classmate’s boyfriend, meet in a confession box – and as the priest attempts to explain away his role in the death – Peter is left in that most unusual of situations: deciding whether he wishes to accept forgiveness. With everyone seemingly without words in the final lines, the musical ends on a note of open address without much hope of answer.

For Good – Wicked

“I guess we know that there’s blame to share,
And none of it seems to matter anymore”

Wicked focuses so strongly on the dichotomy of good and evil that it’s sometimes hard to look past it to the friendship beneath it all. ‘For Good’ comes the closest to achieving that – a stripped-back, bare account of a (to say the least) tumultuous friendship. Complements are exchanged, faults are owned up to. A request for forgiveness is immediately granted. It all feels so perfect and fairy-tale like that it’s almost possible to forget one of them’s due to melt into a puddle of water.

However, the underlying inevitability of the ending is what makes this song what it is: occurring towards the show’s finale, this is the last time the two meet one another – hence why it’s so poignant that it’s an ending on good terms. It almost matches ‘Defying Gravity’ in terms of the sheer satisfaction of it all: we know how the story ends, and at this point the protagonists do, too, so ‘For Good’ provides that much-needed moment of catharsis.

From Now On – The Greatest Showman

“From now on, these eyes will not be blinded by the lights”

Family-friendly though it may seem, The Greatest Showman comes close to ending in a very different place than advertised. ‘From Now On’ offers an uplifting and much-needed catharsis to a plot which has, by this point, taken some increasingly dark turns. With an almost resurrection-like quality (Jackman perhaps channelling a certain Jean Valjean) and compelled by the assistance of his employee-friends, Barnum pulls himself out of the depths of alcohol-induced despair and, with a fairy-tale-like magic, convinces his wife to forgive him for losing the house. (It’s an easy job, in the end – she only cares that he didn’t tell her.)

It’s a song not only of forgiveness, but, perhaps more importantly, redemption – and also a testament to the power of support, thanks to the beautiful, gospel-like ensemble. The real-life Barnum may not have been on as friendly terms with his employees as we would have hoped, but this song leaves us believing in what could have been.

Bring down controversial speakers with debate not disorder

Marcus Walford
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Bring down controversial speakers with debate not disorder

As someone with Jewish heritage I cannot help noticing cases of antisemitism whenever they arise. And so I was disheartened to learn earlier this term that the Oxford Union would be hosting Mahathir bin Mohamad, the Prime Minister of Malaysia, who has described ‘antisemitic’ as a term devised to give Jewish people immunity from criticism and who apparently has no reservations about describing Jews as ‘hook-nosed’.

It is important to recognise from the founding principles of the Union that an invitation to speak does not constitute an endorsement of the speaker’s views, and this invitation was hardly unprecedented given that last term saw visits from current or former leaders of eight different countries. What this instance shows, however, is that the Union must consider how far it is willing to delve into the realms of controversy at the risk of tarnishing its reputation.

Something which I found far more concerning than any name featured on the Union’s term card was the conduct of some of those protesting the visit of Marion Maréchal last week, in particular the attested chants of ‘who protects the Nazis? Police protect the Nazis’.

Setting aside the issue of disrespecting those who work so hard to maintain public order, chants of this kind are hugely problematic. Taking the term ‘Nazi’ out of context and hurling it at anyone whose views one disagrees with risks distorting our perceptions of history and trivialising the experiences suffered by millions of victims. Even more crucially, such use of the term threatens to disallow any kind of distinction between varying degrees of fault. The implication in this case was that Maréchal, who has made controversial comments about Islam and homosexuality, should be lumped into a category which includes perpetrators of large scale atrocities.

Of course, not all of those present at last week’s protests took part in these chants. In general it is highly encouraging to see the visit of a figure like Maréchal accompanied by protests. When a guest speaker has been known to voice offensive and discriminatory views it is important to raise awareness of this and to put pressure on those attending the talk to use the opportunity for questions to hold the speaker to account.

But when peaceful protest gives way to physical violence, as occurred at the visit of Steve Bannon last term, and protestors begin to use language more hateful and vitriolic than any of the comments which form the pretext for their actions, their respectability is rapidly eroded and with it the prospect of challenging the speaker effectively. Protestors who resort to these methods seem fuelled by a belief that once someone has crossed a certain line there is no longer any point in debating them and the only reasonable response is to inundate them with abuse.

It is unclear whether such a belligerent approach can ever be successful. Consider how two decades ago a considerable victory was achieved against all those who would participate in Holocaust denial when David Irving was defeated in a libel case brought before the High Court. It was only by the careful deconstruction of Irving’s arguments that he was totally and irremediably discredited. Such a positive result would not have occurred if the course adopted had merely been to tell Irving how abominable he was.

A key argument which some protestors have used to justify their actions is that we should think more carefully before providing controversial speakers with a platform. Some of the orchestrators of history’s most unfortunate events, it can be argued, might never have attained the influence they did if those in power had done more to deny them access to large audiences.

These considerations are certainly valid and ought to be heeded, even if they do undermine the value of free speech. But it is difficult to argue for their relevance in the case of Maréchal, whose party came close to winning the French presidential elections in 2017. No-platforming ceases to be an effective response when the cause championed by the speaker has already received widespread acclaim, and besides it hardly seems probable that a talk given at the Oxford Union would impact on the political situation in a foreign country.

Even on a symbolic level it is difficult to justify no-platforming, because it removes the only option remaining for those who wish to take a stand against beliefs they find reproachable. This is to listen to the speaker to gain a clear understanding of their views and why they hold appeal, and to thus be better equipped to confront the speaker and to educate others about why these views are harmful.

It is an unfortunate fact of life that there are people who make us feel uncomfortable. Debate and reason are often the only effective means of response.

Resisting bodily urges: extreme asceticism in medieval female saints’ lives

Iris Kaye-Smith
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Resisting bodily urges: extreme asceticism in medieval female saints’ lives

Warning: this article contains references to eating disorders and self-harm.

For many world religions, the body and the soul have seldom gotten along well. Their uneasy relationship is perhaps most strikingly illustrated by – and, in the west, most heavily associated with – some of the foundational texts of the Christian Church. In his epistle to the Romans, for example, St. Paul the Apostle writes that “those who live according to the flesh set their minds on the things of the flesh, but those who live according to the Spirit set their minds on the things of the Spirit […] for if you live according to the flesh, you will die; but if by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body, you will live” (Rom. 8:13). In the centuries since those words were written, putting to death the deeds of the body has played a central role in the teachings of virtually all churches and denominations.

Suppression of carnal urges – for food, sex, sleep, and so on – has formed an important aspect of religious practices for many faiths, but it is a theme to which the devotional literature of Christianity has returned over and over again, often in conjunction with the valorisation of suffering. This is peculiar to a religion whose central image is of a broken, bleeding body hanging from what was originally designed as an instrument for torture.
In mid-medieval Europe, there was a remarkable increase in hagiographic literature emphasising the virtues of fasting above and beyond the prescriptions of the church, in spite – or perhaps because – of chronic food shortages that characterised the lives of so many. The striking thing about this intensification of ascetic practices over the 12th and 13th Centuries was how many of its adherents were women, and how many did so in defiance of male authorities.
The monk who wrote the life of the 13th-century Blessed Alpaïs of Cudot described a vision in which the Virgin Mary tells her that, because she “bore long starvation in humility and patience”, henceforth “corporeal food and drink will not be necessary for the sustaining of your body, nor will you hunger for bread or any other food.” It is a typical example of the period, but it reads suspiciously like a wish fulfilment fantasy; the vitae of holy women often present fasting, especially the particular practice of fasting on nothing but the Eucharist, as a kind of euphoric experience. “Thus,” it continues, “rejoicing as if possessed, [Alpaïs] frequently vomited from too much food, as if her drunkenness and inebriation were increased… and this was… how God underlined her merits and virtues.” St. Catherine of Siena, according to the Vita by her spiritual director Raymond of Capua, fasted until she was unable to keep down any food or drink, and regarded her asceticism as an infirmity. Eustochia of Messina, whose biography was written by her female companions, was one of many anchoresses who confined themselves to cells to subsist on bread and water.
She went further, however, by whipping and burning her skin. In addition to extreme self-deprivation, many of these women outdid male ascetics in their commitment to stomach-churning displays of active self-harm. Jacques de Vitry, who wrote a Vita of Marie of Oignies, commends his subject’s imitation of the Desert Fathers in her commitment to fasting and mortification of the flesh, even eating hardened stale bread to tear the skin of her mouth. The same St. Catherine of Siena who ate nothing but communion wafers in the last years of her short life would also, while tending the sick, drink the pus of her patients’ sores (a habit she shared with St. Columba of Rieti). Seeking to keep herself ‘spiritually pure’ after her father rejected her desire to become a nun and married her off, the teenaged St. Frances of Rome would pour molten fat and wax onto her vulva before fulfilling her conjugal duties, ensuring she never derived anything but pain from the act. She was terrified, it is recorded, by demons who took the forms of naked men and women in her dreams, and stuffed food into her mouth.
Profoundly disturbing though it is, the satisfaction these women derived from pain, restriction and purgation, has more parallels in our society than we might initially recognise. The anorexia memoir (by both sufferers of the disease and their carers) remains a distinctly lucrative literary genre, fuelling the same morbid fascination that drew flocks of pilgrims to observe medieval fasting women.
In her novel Wolf Hall, Hilary Mantel writes, “as I am a woman, I am the means by which sin enters this world. I am the devil’s gateway, the cursed ingress.” Eating, as well as sex, still holds greater cultural stigma for women in spite of the advance of feminism; suffering and deprivation are the natural expectations of a patriarchal culture for those bodies it regards with suspicion. It is true, of course, that many male saints are also written as devoted ascetics, and modern eating disorders also affect men, but it has seldom inspired quite as much horror or veneration.
We should be wary of straightforward interpretations of medieval saints’ lives as manifesting patriarchy in the gruesome panegyrising of women who, in effect, starved themselves to death. Most of these texts were written by men, though Eustochia’s collaborative biography stands out as a notable exception. The consecration of a fertile uterus-owning body to God also deprived the patriarchal family unit of one of its most valuable economic assets, as Frances of Rome’s father knew. Some of these women abused their own bodies even after leading churchmen begged them to show moderation. But there was a fine line, an often-indiscernible boundary, between this and the kind of suffering of which they wholeheartedly approved, between what was embarrassing excess and what constituted a case for canonisation. Our attitudes have changed significantly since the days of pre-Reformation Europe, and even the most conservative 21st-century priests would struggle to vindicate some of the practices discussed by medieval mystics. But this same contradiction is still with us, in the modern magazines carrying hard-hitting stories of the horrors of anorexia and listicles of dieting tips in the same issue. In the name of achieving an unblemished, unattainable ideal of perfection – whether that of Christ or the bikini body – patriarchal structures will always find a pretext for imposing control on female flesh.

Mary Queen of Scots review: ‘artistic licence breathes life into history’

Molly A Chell
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Mary Queen of Scots review: ‘artistic licence breathes life into history’

Elizabeth I and Mary Queen of Scots are undoubtedly two of British history’s most well-known female figures, their rivalry forming the focus of many films and novels. In her directorial feature debut, Josie Rourke brings a fresh take on this fraught relationship between two women ruling in a man’s world. The film begins as Mary (Saoirse Ronan) arrives in Scotland after the death of her husband, the French Dauphin, and takes us through her difficult time at Scotland’s helm.

Rourke takes a well-known motto of the Scots Queen to poignantly open and close the film. “In the end is my beginning” was the famous saying Mary had embroidered onto her cloth of estate during her years of English captivity, and the film also ends as it began, in 1587, with Mary’s imminent execution after being implicated in a plot against Elizabeth’s (Margot Robbie) life. Through this creative choice, Rourke cleverly embeds the tragedy of Mary’s life into the film’s very structure.

A charge of historical inaccuracy is typically laid against any historical drama, and Mary Queen of Scots is no exception. But considering that historians still heavily debate the truth of Mary’s story, Rourke can easily be excused for bringing a creative twist to elements of Mary’s life still shrouded in mystery. Well-known facts are so smoothly blended in with acts of artistic license that it is difficult to tell one from the other unless viewers are familiar with the minute details of Mary’s life. The most interesting divergence from pure historical fact is the presentation of a love triangle between Mary, Darnley (Jack Lowden) and the Queen’s secretary David Rizzio (Ismael Cruz Cordova), as there is a lack of conclusive evidence that the two men had a sexual relationship. Rizzio’s gruesome murder hence takes on deeper meaning in the film, with Darnley destroying the physical manifestation of his sexuality.

The film will no doubt interest history buffs as it provides its own answers to the big questions circulating Mary’s life – whether she had a hand in the murder of her second husband Henry, Lord Darnley, and the circumstances of her subsequent marriage to Lord Bothwell (Martin Compston). Some may be disappointed that important moments in Mary’s life are skipped over, such as her forced abdication and lengthy imprisonment, but for the sake of running time these omissions are unfortunately necessary.

Historiography centred on Mary Queen of Scots has fluctuated between portraying her as a victim or a perpetuator. Rourke gives us a Mary capable of fitting into both categories, and for this reason may come close to the true historical Mary. Ronan is an excellent choice for the role of Mary, as she combines the Queen’s fierce nature and independence with her increasing desperation. She is betrayed both by the men in her life and ultimately the woman who should understand her the most.

David Tennant gives a spot-on performance as Protestant preacher John Knox. Famous for being misogynistic even in an era that was hardly noted for its gender equality, Knox’s antagonism towards Mary translates well onscreen. His harangues against Mary, calling her a ‘strumpet’, and his commentary on the evil of allowing women to rule contributes to Rourke’s overall depiction of the difficulties faced by these two women in establishing their authority. Yet Rourke also counteracts this ever-present misogyny in the film’s most powerful scene, one that sees Elizabeth swoop down a palace corridor as a sea of black clad male courtiers fall to one knee as she passes.

The central irritant of the film was the decision to dramatically age Elizabeth beyond her years, as Robbie’s Elizabeth is a lot more disconcerting to look at compared to previous depictions. The fictional meeting depicted in the film between the two queens took place in 1568 when Elizabeth was only 35 years old. Though Rourke’s intention was no doubt to reveal Elizabeth’s vulnerability behind the mask of stoicism that she must present to her subjects to survive, the imagery is too blunt. This endurance is more effectively communicated through scenes of Elizabeth consuming herself in her art. The film’s recent Oscar nomination for Best Consume Design is, however, well deserved, as no expense is spared in crafting the Virgin Queen’s lavish wardrobe.

The film’s most interesting, yet factually inaccurate scene, comes with the meeting between Elizabeth and Mary after the latter flees to England seeking her cousin’s help. It is an emotional moment that culminates years of rivalry and competition, and although there is no evidence to point to it ever having occurred, the film would lack an emotional pay-off without its inclusion. Its execution was partially flawed, as the tension building until the moment when Mary finally pulls aside a sheet to reveal Elizabeth was slightly overdone. It felt as if the setting was being milked a little too much for all of its dramatic potential.

Any inaccuracies aside, Mary Queen of Scots is a brilliantly directed and passionate take on one of history’s most famous ‘sisterly’ relationships, and brings our attention back to two women whose stories are always worth telling in new ways.

Jenny Holzer at the Tate: An Exhibition for Instagram

Olya Makarova
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Jenny Holzer at the Tate: An Exhibition for Instagram

The first thing you see when walking into a Jenny Holzer exhibition is text. The new Tate Modern display is no exception – the entrance to the exhibition is a small, high-ceilinged room empty save for walls filled with repeated phrases and wandering readers. One sentence reads “SYMBOLS ARE MORE MEANINGFUL THAN THINGS THEMSELVES,” and it becomes increasingly obvious, reading on, that Holzer cannot possibly mean the bold statements. Rather, they are there simply to provoke thought, or, at least, reaction.

Holzer has been making art since the 80s, but has since moved away from the use of original text which characterised her earlier work. Many quotes in the Tate exhibit are recycled from her most famous series, ‘Truisms’. The series popularised phrases such as “Abuse of power comes as no surprise” and “Protect me from what I want”. The quotes were printed on t-shirts, tweeted, and displayed in bold-face italicised Times New Roman on a pastel pink background then uploaded onto tumblr.com. You’ve probably seen Holzer’s work and not even realised it is art.

The intentional of the art is, however, unmistakeable in the exhibition. For one thing, it is located inside a museum. For another, it creates an incredibly strange space – a public space (the exhibit, like the Tate Modern, is free entry) which is pervaded by text. Unlike Holzer’s previous works, which usually placed or projected texts into busy public areas, physical and virtual, the Tate exhibition forces the public to come to the text. As we have learned from Orwell’s ‘Books v. Cigarettes’, the public are not very excited by the concept of reading, and must therefore be enticed.

Holzer excels in this, creating a space which demands to be filmed and uploaded to the internet. In this, the exhibit itself becomes an exercise in conceptual art – it is effectively forced out onto the wider public by being so ‘grammable’, transgressing the museum space. However, it also loses some of its focus in that form. The text becomes secondary to images of neon lights and strange interiors. Even within the exhibit, the text begins to feel gratuitous; the inscribed black and white marble benches are barely legible and the flashing messages pass too quickly to process.

This is the main failing of the exhibition; Holzer seeks to be transgressive in every way – soliciting emotional response for victims of human rights violations in Syria while simultaneously deriding the desire to construe meaning by overloading her viewers with highly politicised and often-conflicting text. Holzer’s art poses as anti-establishment, and is yet incredibly commercialised. Perhaps this is the convenient message of the exhibition: anti-establishment is also establishment. I am undoubtedly accidentally paraphrasing one of Holzer’s truisms – though they are so copious that I may not even be paraphrasing.

However, if the death of authenticity is the message of the exhibition, it is a message which is expertly imparted if it was intentional. The ‘Truisms’ (1984) which were once hot takes in the days of second-wave feminism become the banal reminders of female victimhood, such as one plaque which reads, “AFTER DARK IT’S A RELIEF TO SEE A GIRL WALKING TOWARD OR BEHIND YOU. THEN YOU’RE MUCH LESS LIKELY TO BE ASSAULTED.” Holzer’s previous art is implicated in the information overload, and leading the viewer to question Holzer’s work as a whole.

If the death of authenticity is the message, can the exhibit even be art? When does the art itself become a commercial enterprise, amassing currency which is not physical, but in the form of followers and posts?

Holzer’s disregard of her own text leads me to think that in this exhibition, as in most conceptual art, symbols are more meaningful than things themselves, but perhaps it is the wrong symbols which are the most meaningful.

Pictures in the sandcastles

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Pictures in the sandcastles

The study of history has often highlighted the appearance of patterns, cycles and repeating structures in the motions of human activity. Seen generally as an organising force, arriving at times almost predictable, and precipitating some of the greatest rises and falls our past has to offer, the term revolution is perhaps the best we have to map onto our own activity. It encompasses both the tide-like consistency and refusal to be tamed that we see in human behaviours. The reason for this incessance, and our impotence despite awareness, is most likely its origin. It has been said in various formats that ‘blood alone moves the wheels of history’, most recently by Dwight Schrute of The Office fame, and his retro-historical counterpart, Benito Mussolini, but I propose an interpretation which would thankfully liberate the phrase from its genesis at the heart of fascism. ‘Blood’ is not that spilled in violence, but the purest human movement, the liquid force and flow that provides the impetus for contractions and expansions of a society under the writhing heat of its own people. The motions and patterns of political and social upheaval are indicative of the most fundamental of human urges.

With this in mind, it is then easy to see why those often responsible for the initiation and realisation of grand changes do so via methods which closely reflect the fundamental origins of their movements. Art as a political force, used to instigate social revolution and redefinition, draws its efficacy from its proximity to the nature of politics and sociolog y. Defining art in this manner however does not necessarily term it ‘base’, or invalidate any connection we may draw to high culture, elevated thought or profound examination. On the contrary, it creates an observable continuum between the more primal and vital desires, and their subsequent political articulation.

Expressing an innate sense of entitlement or obligation, be it to a cause or for human rights, is often accompanied by a propogandist call to some form of natural or transcendent image. ‘The motherland’, ‘service’, ‘duty’, all raise, in those susceptible to their charms, an ineffable lurch of spirit. Yet, when thinking about art in a political context, there is a necessary element of coherence and validity; it is not enough to call upon a generic sentiment with no purpose or affiliation. This most likely engendered, sense of obligation must be harnessed, directed and controlled by a socialised and contextualised piece of art. Having already written for this paper on the topic of propaganda, I must specify that I am not again doing so. What I speak of here is, admittedly, the basic formulation by which coercive campaigns and the like are generally realised, however, it more importantly signposts why the arts are such an effective medium for political communication. The ability to establish a commonality between the innate compulsion and the ideological, in a medium as semiotically established as the visual arts or literature, is a powerful one.
Whilst the availability of a potent tool may be tempting in and of itself, it does not inherently justify the compulsion many artists feel to involve themselves in political issues.

The dissident Chinese artist Ai Weiwei is perhaps the best known example of the ‘artist as activist’ complex that seems to strike many in his field. He famously stated that “if somebody questions reality, truth, facts; it always becomes a political act.” The processes of introspection and the critical gaze prompted and foregrounded by artwork are often destabilising enough to qualify a piece as ‘political commentary’. This is compounded by the fact that, in our aggressively postmodern age, we have a vastly increased awareness of the structures of political systems and how semantics are shaped and crafted. With this augmented knowledge, it is nigh on impossible for modern artists to operate entirely aesthetically. A precedent has been set, a tradition established or a theory constructed around almost all forms of visual art and literature. This is not a limiting structure, as it simply adds to hermeneutic engagement as opposed to restricting it, but it does mean that creating serious artwork and being agenda-free is an almost impossible balance to establish. All art has become political, because politics itself has transcended its Estate, becoming so ubiquitous that the most minute of interactions is now laced with some form of implicit bias.

I do not wish to pass judgement on this state of affairs, it requires far deeper engagement and an assessment of the separation of the social, individual and political. But it remains undeniable, that all expression has been rendered politically charged, meaning that any artist making an attempt at creative expression, is consciously setting forth, acutely aware of the clinical political treatment their work shall receive. It is questionable whether or not it is a choice to create art with an obvious, and publicly proclaimed ideological agenda, or whether we are simple a society primed to search for one. Yet it would be insulting to the intelligence of any self-described artist to presume them sufficiently naïve as to remain unaware of the significance of their composition.

In addition to this, we must also consider the oppositionality inherent in the idea of self-expression. It is the removal of the individual, from the context of the individual and their then placement in the public sphere. In doing so, the artist is undermining the constitutive fabric of a public setting. Instead of a society being an agglomerated mass of unique voices, each consciously directed into the public frame, the artist has removed the detaching medium of vocality, placing at least an insight into the entire self in a very expositional setting.

This distinction is one that has manifested in art and literary theory for a long time, but its potency cannot be underestimated. This action presents the individual as infinitely complex, an institution equal in scope, capacity and therefore influence to the state. Any form of self-expression will be an immediate enemy of those desiring conformity or cohesion, as total assimilation of an individual is impossible without consent or coercion. In creating art that is, for want of not sounding like a country music critic, true and expressive, an artist takes a stand against their own imposed definition. It is the transition from reader, to writer, or from spectator to performer. Politics is there to be witnessed by those it controls, so when another entity exists in an equally exhibitionist manner, and with access to the same semiotic tools, a threat is immediately established. The artist as revolutionary is a wonderful image, and perhaps one that is forced upon creatives of our day. However, it is imperative to recall both the political power of artistic media, and the inherent ideology of created works. I remain undecided as to where the ‘urge’ lies in this dynamic, but it is clear that such structures are expressive of fundamental tenets of human nature and society. Forgive the attempted pith, but it appears that ‘ink alone moves the wheels of history’.

Introducing 2019 in colour: Living Coral

Ailin Cheng
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Introducing 2019 in colour: Living Coral

Before the start of every year, Pantone, the authority on colour-intelligence, reveals its prediction for the Colour of the Year. As of last month, Living Coral has earned the title for 2019. This warm, peach shade draws on earthy tones whilst maintaining a sunny intensity, making it a versatile one to represent a range of contexts.

On on hand, the earthy quality of this colour relates to the growing concern of climate change and pollution. The orange tones vividly recall their namesake: the coral reefs that are valued for their vibrant hues, all the more so now as bleaching and climate change become an inescapable reality. Living Coral optimistically relates to a need to reconnect with the natural world, and to emulate this in our lifestyles. On the other hand, the warm, sunny quality of this colour is particularly noteworthy at a time when technology and ‘social’ media is driving rifts through communities. Pantone’s Executive Director, Leatrice Eiseman, states: ‘with consumers craving human interaction and social connection, the humanising and heartening qualities displayed by the connival Pantone Living Coral hit a responsive chord.’

This is quite a development from the mood approaching 2018. The 2018 Colour of the Year was declared to be Ultra Violet, a bright electric purple that, as stated by Pantone, ‘communicates originality, ingenuity, and visionary thinking that points us toward the future.’ The violet hues were representative of modernity, and an era of innovation and ingenuity driven by technology. Purple has long been an important symbol for counter-cultural icons, with Jimi Hendrix, Prince, and Bowie being its key promoters. In 2018, this electric shade was brought to the fore by Tokyo’s youth. The shade was embraced for its gender-neutrality and futuristic hues, with Shinjuku and Harajuku-goers soon sporting the bright colour in alternative, androgynous silhouettes. Spreading out beyond Asia, from Hamish Bowles’ stunning ultra violet walls to the S/S18 collections of Gucci and Balenciaga, the shade has been a key one for all elements of design this year.

Reaching beyond design, these colours also infiltrated everyday life on a microcosmic level. Purple began re-colouring the food scene. Speared by the trend of clean-eating and Instagram-hyped colourful food, ingredients such as purple ube, taro, purple cauliflower, beetroot and anthocyanin-rich purple tea have been making appearances across healthy-eating cafes and restaurants.

All these examples go as far to acknowledge the accuracy of Pantone’s forecast. Given the almost monopoloid hold Pantone has over colour intelligence, the colour of the year may well be a self-fulfilling prophecy. Yet the colour of the year is more than a guiding forecast; it is through the careful mapping of macro and micro trends that current moods and atmospheres are translated into a visual form.

Our intuitive awareness of colour symbolism allows it to be a useful tool in expression. This dates back throughout history, when rich lapis-lazuli dyes were used exclusively for the highly-esteemed and royal. Meanwhile, the instantly recognisable ‘On Wednesdays we wear pink’ quote shines a spotlight on the subtle associations that can be evoked simply through colour choice. In the renowned TV show Breaking Bad, character development can be tracked in the colours they wear. As Walter White becomes further embroiled with his alter-ego, Heisenberg, his colors become stronger, moving from initial shades of neutral green towards red and eventually black. When faced with defeat or the return of his cancer, his khaki shades return.

Colour is more than a fashion statement, and has always played as much a role in shaping cultural and political identities as it has in personal identity. The clashing, angry red and blues of the Republican and Democrat battle in the US are but one example. The World Cup last summer saw people taking to the streets in proud display of their national colours. The Pride movement’s flag, meanwhile, proves that colours aren’t necessarily a means of reinforcing divides: the flag cleverly plays on the ideological divides denoted by different colours, including and representing all shades in a brilliant rainbow display.

It’s still too soon to tell what role Living Coral will play this year. A keen eye may notice its increasingly frequent appearances on the catwalk. Marc Jacobs led the charge with a collection dominated by pastel hues, featuring wearable coral and blush-toned looks. Meanwhile, Brandon Maxwell combines structured tailoring with the fiery coral shade in his collection of flared trousers and shirt-dresses. Within days of Pantone’s announcement, interior design and fashion magazines were publishing articles on how to prepare for the soon-to-be trend. On a superficial level, the significance of the colour of the year may simply be the need to jump on these bandwagons. But the wider symbolism of this shade and the reasons behind Pantone’s choice make colour a powerful tool for participating in and being aware of the social climate.

Saudi Arabia’s sporting mission

Cal Flintoff
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Saudi Arabia’s sporting mission

It is a small detail that has been glossed over in the face of more puzzling aspects to the story, but it is one that forms part of a larger and more uneasy trend that has been slowly developing. When Wayne Rooney was arrested at Washington’s Dulles Airport in December, his private jet had been returning from a presumably lucrative sojourn to Riyadh, the Saudi Kingdom capital; it would be a righteous tale, but it is rather unlikely that a mix-up with sleeping pills came about through Rooney’s sheer indignation at the humanitarian crises he witnessed, or the vivid imagery of a public execution, now forged indelibly into his mind.

 No, Rooney was an access all areas guest of Geox Dragon Racing, the American motorsport team who compete in Formula E: a relatively new, electrically-fuelled pursuit that has caught the eye, and the wallet, almost paradoxically so, of the prescient petro-magnates of Saudi Arabia.

Dubbed ‘Mario Kart’ of the streets due to the set of luminous blue LED lights affixed to each driver’s halo – fluorescing in a newfangled “attack mode”, each driver’s personal quiver of golden mushrooms – the concept has been incredibly successful. The spectacle is modern and attractive, the carbon footprint is diluted, pit stops are a thing of the past, and, more markedly in the eye of investors, there is no overriding sense of the engrained hierarchical structure that pervades through modern Formula 1. For Felipe Massa, the attraction as a driver is rooted in this mentality: “Maybe many drivers can win the championship.”

For the riches of a Saudi dictatorship, however, the seduction is of a more nefarious kind; eventually, the oil will run dry, and the economy badly needs to diversify and develop more sustainable, multi-faceted income. On the face of it, investing in renewables seems logical, innocuous even. The sovereign wealth fund has ploughed money into Uber, and more recently the American electric car start-up Lucid.

But Formula E is a good place to start because it represents the subtle dichotomy between the State’s public pontifications on infrastructure and access, and its private desperation to reverse a tarnished image in the West by opening up the Kingdom to the world of sport. Now wedlocked into a 10-year contract to host the season curtain call at the street circuit in Riyadh, the Saudi regime has handily positioned itself at the vanguard of a global sport just experiencing its revolution. Unsurprisingly, the official take adopts a different angle, and chooses to praise the “mission to accelerate the transition and uptake of clean transportation”, and to “inspire the next generation of technicians and engineers within Saudi Arabia.”

To entangle itself so inexorably into the global economy, to become a major player and a central trade hub even when the barrels are not so bountiful, the state must also radically overhaul an archaic, authoritarian society. Or, more appositely, engineer the impression it is doing so: Vision 2030 is perhaps the most well-documented transformation plan in history – its reformative roots promising to overhaul women’s rights and develop the education and recreation sectors – and well, that’s the point. Armed with a burgeoning portfolio of events, the sporting industry is the perfect global circus through which the Kingdom is purporting to have changed.

The story is already ten years down the line, next door in the Gulf, in the UAE. Under Pep Guardiola, Manchester City have become one of Europe’s putative powers, a genuine heavyweight and a home to the most attractive football in the land. In a brilliant analysis of the ownership last year, Nicholas McGeehan forensically unpicked the true and alarming scale to which the club is acting as a baby blue smokescreen to continued human rights violations. When British national Matthew Hedges was detained and psychologically tortured under alleged counts of spying in the Middle East, the polarised reaction was an uneasy snapshot of the process of sportswashing in action, betraying to the naked eye the conflict of interest that many sporting governing bodies have been welded to by prostrating so willingly to the Emirati cash.

https://medium.com/@NcGeehan/the-men-behind-man-city-a-documentary-not-coming-soon-to-a-cinema-near-you-14bc8e393e06

British flat horse racing is another pursuit locked enduringly into business, its entire revenue model increasingly subsisting on the affluent region’s penchant for the sport. European football is, quite literally, being engulfed by its thirst for tainted capital from the region; like a teenage foray into a Colombian narcos gang, it soon becomes apparent that these are deals of the interminable variety, with far-reaching consequences.

https://twitter.com/leemottershead/status/1065537704958533632)

Worrying, then, given the incessant and unabating stream of civilian deaths in Yemen through Saudi-led coalition air-strikes, how seamlessly Mohammad Bin Salman – The UAE crown prince Mohammad Bin Zayed’s trustee and partner in torture – was able to enter the market, brokering deals to bring each of the major sports to his country, one by one.

For the current generation of sports stars, perhaps being desensitised to the metropolis of Dubai, the UAE’s glorified tourist department, blinded by its beauty and attracted by its undoubtable allure, is at least a forgivable act; to turn a blind eye to what is happening in Saudi Arabia though, is reprehensible and irresponsible. No wonder Amnesty International labels the West “deeply hypocritical” in its dealings with the state.

As a society we must wake up and see how wrong this feels. England’s leading international goalscorer uploading his “unbelievable day” in the Saudi capital to his Instagram feed with the same rhetorical flourish as if it were Mykonos or Barbados; Richard Branson assuming directorship of the luxury new Red Sea tourist resort in exchange for not so discrete investment into his Virgin Galactica Scheme; the president of FIFA ceaselessly trumpeting a

virulent Saudi-led $12 billion plan to corrupt club football just after witnessing his predecessor thrown in jail for handing the World Cup to their arch-enemies Qatar, willingly placing the most popular sport in the world slap bang in the centre of its most politically turbulent war.

And yet, before the tragic murder of its most outspoken critic after a series of punishing columns in the Washington Post, there was curiously little introspection. The notion that Saudi Arabia may so brazenly purchase our compliance through our most-loved escape, sport, is ridiculous, but there are clear signs it can work.

Do our sports stars have a duty to speak out? To positively mould their sphere of influence? Surely, we too, as fans, ticket-holders, tweeters, commenters, have a duty to question, to resist, to inform. Our support has never need be unconditional, and never should be.

If you look hard enough, there are signs that it may be happening. The Italian SuperCoppa, an itinerant exhibition that also counts Doha and Tripoli among its more exotic destinations, has come under heavy fire for its proposed location in Jeddah. More importantly though, as the date nears, Italian fans are now discovering the true extent of the horrors that their league has plundered them into: a Saudi-imposed ban on unaccompanied women in the stadium forcibly segregating legions of support, a rupture through the very heart of the game. If money could talk, then it would almost certainly have the voice of Serie A president Gaetano Micciche, befuddling his way through the chaos with a robotic loyalty to his contract: “Until last year, women could not attend any sporting event, [this is a] historic first.”

It is not the only sport to touch down in the country in January. Golf is a pursuit that has willingly integrated Dubai into its standard fare, as a result making its stars richer than ever but flirting dangerously with a post-Tiger era where most would struggle to tell their Bryson DeChambeaus from their Xander Schauffeles, and only the majors and Ryder Cup retain their true aura. The European Tour is ploughing on with its decision to introduce Saudi Arabia to its gilded Desert Swing series; with a tournament structure that allows players to select the events they roll into town for, it leaves little to the imagination why such a stellar field has been assembled for the inaugural event.

Surely, then, Europe’s Ryder Cup golden boys, the iceman Henrik Stenson and the eminently likeable Justin Rose, could be relied upon to recalibrate their moral compasses to the real world from which sports stars are so often allowed to slip from. Instead, if you squint hard enough, you can just about make out the spinning black and white wheels where their eyes should be.

Henrik Stenson: “The course looks spectacular and I’ve heard a lot about the Kingdom’s plans to grow golf in the region and I’m excited to be a part of it,”

Justin Rose: “I’ve heard a lot of positive things about Saudi Arabia and I’m delighted to see a new tournament added to the European Tour schedule.”

Smile and wave boys smile and wave.

Bolsonaro’s most vulnerable targets: the Indigenous Brazilians

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Bolsonaro’s most vulnerable targets: the Indigenous Brazilians

1st January marked the inauguration of one of the most controversial figures in politics today: Jair Bolsonaro, the President of Brazil.

Bolsonaro is a man famous for despising almost every single identity group of which he is not a member, from gay people to via women to black people to immigrants. Calling him the “Trump of the Tropics” might be too kind – in many ways he has gone beyond even what the US President has said.

Anyone can watch Bolsonaro telling a congresswoman, “I wouldn’t rape you because you don’t deserve it”, or can look up his interview with Stephen Fry where he claimed “homosexual fundamentalists” were brainwashing children to “become gay and lesbians to satisfy them [the fundamentalists] sexually in the future”, or when he told Playboy Magazine that “I would prefer my son to die in an accident than show up with a moustachioed [i.e gay] man”. 

In this age of internet and easy access to information, the only thing more frightening than Bolsonaro himself is all the people who voted for him, fully aware of what he stands for.

Proudly pro-torture and pro-dictatorship, Bolsonaro is a self-declaring homophobe who considers his sons too “well raised” to date black women or to be gay. Yet he democratically won 55% of the vote and now occupies one of the most powerful positions on the world stage. 

As of January 1st 2019, arguably the group who are now most threatened are those within Brazil who have little, if any, idea of this election: isolated, indigenous tribes.

The Amazon rainforest contains “more uncontacted tribes than anywhere in the world”, according to Survival International. The government believes there are at least 100 isolated groups, who have survived hundreds of years of external threats including slavery, logging and disease.

Bolsonaro goes beyond viewing the indigenous tribes and the quilombolas (the protected, black descendants of Afro-Brazilian slaves) with racist contempt. He does not believe in their right to exist in a culture outside of “mainstream” Brazil.

In an unbelievable backwards act of colonialism that violates international and national law, he has said he wants to abolish existing indigenous territories, give ranchers guns, and to forcibly integrate the indigenous tribes. Within hours of taking office, Bolsonaro gave an executive order to transfer the regulation and creation of indigenous reserves into the hands of the agriculture ministry, which is heavily lobbied by the agriculture sector.

He views the indigenous people as merely an “obstacle to agri-business”, and he doesn’t want to get “into this nonsense of defending land for Indians” because the gold, tin and magnesium in the Amazon make it “the richest area in the world.”

Bolsonaro has said: “The Indians do not speak our language, they do not have money, they do not have culture. They are native peoples. How did they manage to get 13% of the national territory?” 

The huge irony of course is that while Bolsonaro views the indigenous tribes as foreigners and outsiders in Brazil, under these terms, Bolsonaro – a white man of Italian and German descent only a couple of generations back – would be the real immigrant compared to these indigenous tribes.

That the indigenous population do not operate in the exact same way as Bolsonaro’s vision of Brazil – with the same currency, language, ideas and systems – does not mean that their culture must be swallowed up and spat out by the rest of Brazil. That they are different does not make them any less human, nor the land any less theirs.

While Bolsonaro and the Amazon rainforest may seem distant to us, the democratic election of Bolsonaro raises bigger questions for all of us around the world. Britain’s colonial rule may seem a thing of the past, but with a recent YouGov poll finding only 21% of British people regretted colonialism, and prominent academics such as Niall Ferguson arguing the case for the British Empire, it’s hard to ignore a wider failure to denounce colonisation.

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